Alfred the Great
by Whymsical
Summary: This is the story of a little nation and his King.


**A/N**: My entry for this historical Hetalia contest on dA. We could write about anything not mentioned (much) in canon.

* * *

England raced along the land, bare feet slapping against the earth. The breath billowed from his lungs and his young limbs were tired, but he pushed himself onward. He had to get to camp. He had to warn everyone.

By this point, none of the soldiers were surprised to see what looked like a ten year old boy running through the camp. They didn't know exactly who he was, but they did know he was important and under the king's protection. The little blond gained a sudden burst of energy and speed as the main tent came into view, blowing in like a miniature hurricane.

The tall man sharpening his sword looked up and then quickly tossed the blade aside so he could catch the small nation. "Whoa there, Arthur." He grunted softly but smiled, somehow managing to keep his balance. The small faded, though, when he saw the fear in England's eyes. "What's wrong?"

"They're coming, I saw them!" England panted out. In the morning, he had gotten a strong urge. Following it, he found himself on a high ridge just before dawn. And as the sun appeared over the horizon, so had they. "The Viking-people! They're coming here, Ælfrēd!"

The human king's brow furrowed. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, they're coming!" England winced and gingerly rubbed at the burns and scratches over his arms. "Why can't they stop? It hurts and people are hurt and this is _my_ home-"

"Hush, Arthur." Ælfrēd lightly stroked his back in comfort. "It'll be okay, we'll beat them back again. Don't you worry, I won't let those wretched invaders take you." he promised.

England nodded, staring up at the man before him in awe.

"Go put your armour on- it's waiting for you in the trunk." Ælfrēd gestured to a corner of the tent and then strode outside, shouting commands. The entire camp came to life in moments.

The young nation drew himself up, slightly more calm and confident because of Ælfrēd's words, and went over to the chest to prepare. Really, he should have been much smaller, having been discovered by Ælfrēd's father Æthelwulf a few years prior. He had been even smaller and weaker then, but as more and more of the country unified under the past king, his strength grew. Under Ælfrēd's brothers Æthelbald, Æthelberht, and Æthelred, nothing much happened to him in terms of growth. Then Ælfrēd came into power, and with him seemed to come an increase of Danes.

Nonetheless, England adored Ælfrēd. He had watched the man grow up- and even marry the lovely Ealhswith in 868-, and they had been close even then. Ælfrēd was ambitious and enthusiastic, but above all he was fair. He had practically taught himself to read and write, and he'd sometimes helped England out as well. Then, when the Danish attacks had increased, he taught the little nation to fight and defend himself. While Ælfrēd wasn't the strongest of men, physically, he was intelligent and cunning and knew the basics of fighting, and he taught all of that to the young nation.

England himself has changed when that happened. His body had shot out in all directions, experiencing a massive growth spurt because of the need to defend himself and the further unification of the land. That had resulted in the form he was in currently. When Ælfrēd had become king in 871, he ordered a custom suit of armour made for him, and it was that suit which England donned now.

Ælfrēd reentered the tent moments after England finished and started putting on his own armour with the help of one of the soldiers. Strapping on his sword, he patted England on the head. "Stay close to me. I'll keep you safe."

"Right." England put on a serious face as he trotted out on the heels of the brunet, keeping very close to him. So close, in fact, that he crashed into Ælfrēd's leg when he stopped.

The final soldiers lined up and formed into ranks. Ælfrēd looked over them and smiled before turning his eyes towards where the Danes would come from. England watched the men for a moment more. They had all unified for him, they were all defending him and giving their lives for him, even though they might not know it. To them, he was just some tagalong child, special for some reason, but as his grip tightened on his short sword, England vowed that he would do his best to make them, and Ælfrēd, proud.

There was a thick silence, like the one before a storm, and then the invaders appeared over the next ridge. A soft tinkling rang out as Ælfrēd's army shifted slightly and prepared, but the king raised a hand to stop them from moving forward. England was admittedly scared as more and more Danes came forth, and he touched Ælfrēd's leg for reassurance. Ælfrēd glanced down and nudged him, and then focused on the approaching army. A few moments later he gave the order to charge.

The army surged forward, Ælfrēd at the forefront and England by his side. The Danes paused for a moment, seemingly surprised, but then they recovered and pressed forward as well. England spotted Demark, just a little bit older and bigger than him, with wild blond hair and a long, heavy sword. The other nation was next to his own king, and England was filled with a hot, burning anger.

He changed direction and ran at Denmark, and luckily Ælfrēd noticed and followed. The human kept the enemy soldiers from harming him, while England kept his eyes fixated on the Dane. Denmark noticed him after a moment and grinned wildly, coming to meet him.

"You've grown, little boy." Denmark said sardonically, immediately swinging at him. "Doesn't matter, I'll still crush you this time."

England grunted as he blocked the blow and retaliated. "Yes, I'm stronger now! You said you would win before, and you didn't then! You won't now!"

Denmark only laughed and slashed at him again. England was forced to defend himself rather than attack. The two armies battled on around them, though neither paid attention to anything but the other.

Meanwhile, Ælfrēd was crossing swords with the Danish king Guthrum. At the same time he was trying to reason with the man to call for some sort of truce or treaty, but the Dane wasn't listening. Ælfrēd gritted his teeth in frustration, but there was nothing more he could do but fight on.

The number of Danes seemed never to cease, and the tide of battle shifted more toward their favour. Ælfrēd's sword training helped England out a bit, but as more of his people were overwhelmed and killed his strength waned, his ten-year-old's body not helping in terms of stamina. Some of Denmark's blows started to land, and his arm was cut open near the wrist. Crying out in pain, England parried and blocked with wearied desperation. He wasn't strong enough- He couldn't hold off much longer-

Denmark's next blow caught him in the leather breastplate and sent him flying back a few feet. He landed against the body of a dead man and fought down the urge to throw up. More strength left him as some of his people started to flee the battlefield.

"No, come back!" he cried, but no one heard him, except Denmark.

"They won't." the bigger nation said as he advanced. "It's over. You'll become part of me and serve me-"

Suddenly a larger sword came crashing down into the earth between them, stopping Denmark in his tracks. Ælfrēd stood protectively over England, a grim light in his eyes. "Not while I am king." he spat.

England looked up at him in shock. He glanced to the side to see the Danish king surrounded by a ring of Ælfrēd's men. Then his attention snapped back to what was in front of him as Ælfrēd pushed Denmark back with a few well-placed blows. The invading nation stumbled away a few steps, but was unharmed.

"You lost the battle, human!" he taunted. "Look, all your men run away, cowering before the might of me!"

England looked around again and to his dismay saw more and more of Ælfrēd's army fleeing. "No!" he staggered up, pushing away from the dead man with relief, and moved to his king's side.

"This is not your land to take." Alfred said calmly. He looked around to find most of his army scattered to the wind. "Winning a battle does not mean winning the war." He suddenly unleashed a flurry of blows upon the opposing nation. Then, when Denmark was caught off balance defending himself, he scooped up England and ran.

"Æ- Ælfrēd?!" England curled closer to him but glanced up to his face with questioning eyes.

"Hush, Arthur, and hold on." Ælfrēd told him.

"Why are you running away?!"

"There's no point in staying." Ælfrēd explained. "We'd be overwhelmed. If we fall back and then regroup, we'll have a better chance." Blocking a few strokes from enemy blades, he vanished into the nearby woods. No one pursued them, but he kept up a jog for long after the sounds of battle faded away.

When he slowed down he set England down onto the ground and took his hand, leading him on. To ease the little nation's way, he took the short sword from him and stuck it in his belt.

"Where are we going?" England asked after a while.

"To find some shelter."

England struggled slightly with keeping up, but he did his best not to let it show. They wandered for hours with small rests every now and then, eventually following a small stream. When England couldn't go on on his own, Ælfrēd picked him up and carried him. England nuzzled to him, feeling a rush of love and affection for his king.

"Just a little farther." Ælfrēd murmured to him.

"Sorry I wasn't strong enough..." England grabbed fistfuls of his cloak and clung to it, hiding his face in the folds of fabric.

"Hush, no need for apologizing." Ælfrēd reassured him. "You will grow stronger in time, we just have to give you that opportunity"

"I'll be the strongest of them all one day." England said seriously. "I'll beat Denmark, and anyone like him."

Ælfrēd patted his back. "I pray you won't lose your judgment." he murmured, too softly for England to hear.

The sun had just started sinking in the sky when the man spotted a small cottage in the distance. He set England onto the ground and once more took his hand as they approached it. Knocking upon the stout wooden door, they only had to wait a moment before it opened.

"Yes?" A woman peered out at them, distrust in her eyes.

Ælfrēd knew what they must look like- a dirty, sweat and bloodstained man and a young boy, both in armour and looking exhausted. "Would you be kind enough to let us rest for a bit? And maybe provide some food, if you have extra?"

The woman looked at them for a long time before stepping aside to let them enter. "Go on, by the fire."

"Many thanks." Ælfrēd nodded to her and led England over to the kitchen area, where a small batch of flat cakes was baking on a smooth piece of slate.

"Why don't you tell her you're-"

"Hush, Arthur." Ælfrēd gently covered his mouth. "There's no need to put her under any more stress." he said lowly.

England nodded against his hand and then crept closer to the fire when he could, shivering as he warmed up.

"If you're going to stay here, might as well make yourself useful. Watch the cakes, and when they're done you can each have one."

"Of course. Thank you, kind lady." Ælfrēd took a seat on the small stool next to the fire.

"Hmph." The woman huffed but her gaze softened and she grabbed a nearby wooden bucket. "I'll be back soon. Don't let any accursed Vikings in."

"I will keep a vigilant eye out." Ælfrēd said, and apparently satisfied, the woman left. When she was gone he slumped forward a bit more, worry lined becoming more pronounced as he stared into the flames.

"Ælfrēd?" England settled on the ground next to him, resting his head on the human's leg and peering up at his face worriedly. "Are you okay?"

"It didn't go as planned today." Ælfrēd sighed, but looked down at the little nation with a small, hopeful smile. "But they haven't won yet."

England's eyebrows furrowed. "We left! And- and the army!"

"I know, Arthur, I know. There were so many of them...the court will laugh at me for this. I'm sorry I couldn't defend you well enough this time."

"It's okay." England reached up to pat his cheek. "You did good. You have a plan, right?"

"I'll think of something." Ælfrēd sighed heavily, but lightly touched England's hand. "How do you feel? Are you in pain?"

"It hurts a bit because they're still coming, but it's not that bad. I'm okay." England gave a quick grin. "You have a plan, right?"

"Yes. They key is strategy." Ælfrēd murmured, half to himself. He was running through different plans in his head, trying to figure out how to proceed. "We need to get out of this area, back to more populated territory. Athelney- We'll make a fort at Athelney. From there we can raise the men, raise an army, and hit them before they get comfortable here."

England's eyes shone with utter hope and trust. "You're a good king."

"Oh?" Ælfrēd looked down on him and laughed despite their grim situation. "Well, little nation, I hope you remember me in he future."

"Don't talk like you're going to leave me!" Arthur cried, clinging to him more. "You can't leave me too!"

"Hush, Arthur. I'm not planning on leaving anytime soon. We have defending to do and Danes to fight. Though I do wish Guthrum would accept a treaty." Ælfrēd said.

"I won't forget you though. Ever." England declared.

"Thank you, little one." Ælfrēd absently patted England's head as he stared at the ground, lost in thought. Silence permeated the atmosphere for a few more minutes, until the woman came back.

"Oh, fools!" she cried, nearly dropping the bucket of milk. "The cakes!"

Ælfrēd's head snapped up and he looked into the flames. Indeed, the cakes were blackened and burned all the way through. He quickly reached for the slab and took it off the fire, but it was too late; there was nothing that could be done. "I-I am so-"

"Those cakes were to feed me for a few days! Oh woe, you utter, utter- _fools_!" the woman said, for lack of a better insult. "What am I supposed to do now, it'll take _time_ to prepare them again, I don't have time to spare-" She whirled on the man, grabbing a nearby broom and brandishing it like a sword. "I asked you to do one thing and keep an eye out for them, do you know how hard it is to take care of a home when your husband's off defending against those vile Danes?"

Ælfrēd blinked, half bemused and half nervous. "Err, my- my lady please..."

The woman shook the stick in his face, but then suddenly her eyes were drawn to the side, and her mouth fell open in shock.

England was kneeling by the slab of slate, munching through one of the blackened cakes. He noticed the woman's and Ælfrēd's stares on him and smiled slightly. "It's not that bad..." he said after he'd swallowed.

"Tch..." The woman shook her head, though smiling softly, and she lightly prodded Ælfrēd's back. "Oh, get him away from those before he gets poisoned."

"Arthur, come on." Ælfrēd gently nudged him away from the slab and took the cake from his hand. The little nation resisted and looked confused. "Arthur, little one, you can't eat that, it's burned. We'll get you something else."

"...If you help me with the batter, then there'll be another batch in less than an hour. Think he'll survive?" the woman asked, her irritation fading quickly.

Ælfrēd nodded and together he and the woman made a fresh batch, with England either looking on or glancing out the window. No matter what Ælfrēd said, the young nation felt angry and hopeless. Angry that Denmark was still invading, still had the _nerve_ to invade him when he'd been driven back so many times, and hopeless that he still wasn't strong enough to drive the Dane back for good. He had to get stronger, as strong as he could, and soon. Though he didn't like to think about it, he knew Ælfrēd would one day die and leave him, as was the nature of humans, but England wanted to soak up as much knowledge as he could from the man now so he could become better, and thrive for long after his beloved king died.

Said king's shout of victory when the cakes were done roused him from his thoughts. England turned to him and smiled as well, trotting over to Ælfrēd's side to take a look. This batch of cakes were golden brown on the outside, and when they were cooled down enough the two males each took one. Not long after, the woman bid them good night and went to sleep, leaving Ælfrēd and England to figure out a place to sleep. The king eventually just moved the stool next to the wall so he could lean on it.

"We're gonna go to that place soon, right?" England asked sleepily, getting comfortable on Ælfrēd's lap.

"Athelney. Yes. We cannot stay here for long. We'll move on tomorrow, and set up a camp there. Hopefully some of the men will be in the surrounding area." Ælfrēd told him, stroking his hair.

England nodded, happy. He felt good whenever Ælfrēd told him his plans. It made him feel involved and somewhat in control, and he was pleased that the brunet thought him big enough to understand it all. "And if there's no men?"

"We'll find some. They'll rally to me, they have to." But Ælfrēd did not sound desperate; rather, he was confident. "From there on we can also get support from the militias of Somerset, Wiltshire, and Hampshire." He looked down on England's drowsy face. "We will all defend you, and we _will_ drive them off."

"I know you will." England said, stifling a yawn. "I trust you..." He fell asleep shortly after, his hands tightening in the fabric of Ælfrēd's clothing.

Ælfrēd stayed awake for another hour or so, watching the fire die and keeping an eye out for any Danes that might be in the area. Luckily there weren't bothered, but throughout the night he slept lightly. They were undisturbed, and early the next morning they bid the woman farewell. Both of them received a cake for the road, and the woman was actually smiling as she waved them goodbye.

"I want to go back one day." England declared, right after the cottage vanished from sight. He was walking right next to Ælfrēd, the two of them headed in the direction of Athelney and the moors.

"We will. We have to thank her properly." Ælfrēd agreed. He took England's hand into his own and led the little nation onwards.

* * *

They made it to Athelney in a few days' time, gathering up a small number of soldiers along the way. As Ælfrēd had predicted, the men quickly joined up with their king. He didn't hold it against them, their running off at the last battle. He recognized that the opposing force had been too great, but he roused them up for the next one. Scouts were sent out to gather yet more men, and within days Ælfrēd and England had a proper army again.

Everything was slowly falling into place according to Ælfrēd's plan, and England watched in awe. He didn't think things would go so smoothly, and yet they did. They always did around Ælfrēd, because of the man's charisma and strategic ability. After a few months they had more men than they had started out with, for indeed they came flocking to Athelney when the word reached them that their king was alive.

Finally Ælfrēd decided they were ready to move, and in May they rode out. The men that hadn't come to meet them in the marshes joined up along the way, rejoicing to see their king. They fought at Edington and won a decisive victory, and not long after that Ælfrēd starved the remainder of the Danish force into submission at Chippenham. He then baptized Guthrum and Denmark, something that England was initially against, but after talking with the brunet he finally agreed and watched, scowling, as Ælfrēd took the foreign king in as his spiritual son, even though the man was slightly older.

The next years were fairly quiet for the both of them in terms of attacks (though there were some small skirmishes here and there), and England was able to grow and prosper more and more. Even when the Danes tried invading again in 892, Ælfrēd still kept them back. England remained in awe of him for the duration of the man's life, and when he died, it was the most the little nation had ever cried.

And he would never cry so much over the death of another one of his rulers. Elizabeth I came close, but true to his word England never forgot his favourite king. The only king to be christened 'the Great'.

* * *

**A/N**: Also, 'How England Learned to Burn Food' and 'How America Got His Human Name' (but those are just little headcanons of mine~)


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